And Chief Lester said somberly, "Have you forgotten the trajectory you planned, Lieutenant Bartlett?" "The trajectory?" "I thought it was unusual," rumbled the engineer, "when you called it down to me. It's paper-thin, balanced on a knife-edge between counter-gravitations. If we try to shift course now, we'll tear the ship into shreds!" I knew, now, why Moran had come up with such a ready answer when the computer failed. He had planned well. He had deliberately forced us into this trajectory from which there was no escape. * * * * * Back on the bridge, we found Captain McNeally pacing the deck like a caged cat. Moran was silent, watchful intent, with an unholy gleam of justification lighting his curious eyes. The skipper looked up hopefully as we entered. "Well, gentlemen?" Bartlett shook his head. McNeally was silent for a long moment. His glance roved the smart, glistening interior of the _Antigone's_ control room. I knew exactly what he was thinking. It was too bad that this smooth perfection, this finest ship built by master craftsmen, should become a brief, winking flame in the atmospheric borders of Earth. And it was tough that we must all go out together like this. Through no fault of our own. Through the machinations of a space-mad castaway. He turned to me. "Lieutenant Brait, you and Sparks will go to the radio turret. Send a complete report to the Earth authorities. Tell them--" He gulped. "Tell them why the--the _Antigone_ will not come in." I said, "Aye, aye, sir!" mechanically, and started for the door. But Sparks stopped me. "Ain't you gonna tell 'em what we learned?" "Eh?" "About _him_?" He jerked his head toward 'Moran'. "It doesn't really make any difference now," I said. "But--" I suppose my voice was scornful. There was scorn and bitterness in my heart. "They might as well know that the man who has condemned us all to death is--or was--one of Earth's greatest scientists. Had he not become a raving lunatic his genius could have stemmed this disaster." McNeally said, "What's that, Lieutenant? What do you mean?" "I mean this man's name is not 'Paul Moran'--" "Names," murmured Moran gently. "What difference does a name make? When one has had thousands of names." "His name," I continued, "is John Cartaphilus!" Bartlett said, "Cartaphilus!" In a leap he was at our strange guest's side, his voice eager. "Then he will--he _must_--help us! "Cartaphilus, listen to me! Of all men, only you have the genius to devise some way of escaping this peril! You've been mad, sir! Insane from your privations! But now I beg that you cast aside this madness, come to our rescue!" Moran--or Cartaphilus--brushed his hand aside. A dreamy look was in his eyes. "Death at last!" he whispered. "Oh, sweet boon of mankind--death! I who have suffered so long, waited such a long time--"